Tuesday Night Miracles

by Kris Radish

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Kit hates to admit it but there is a crackle that ripples through the phone every few minutes. Her daughter is apparently on some remote Canadian island that’s accessible twice a month by a fifty-year-old boat. The phone connection really is shaky.

  This is not necessarily news that a mother wants to hear. Kit closes her eyes and sees her gorgeous dark-haired daughter standing against a tree with icicles in her hair, dogs howling in the distance, furry boots on her feet, and large rocks in her pockets to keep her from blowing away.

  Sarah was the neighborhood kid who carried a bucket wherever she went so that she could pick up not just rocks but interestingly shaped pinecones, bark that had fallen off trees, and samples of soil from the Fox River.

  Her father finally bought a huge galvanized bucket that he kept right next to the front step so that Sarah could drop her rocks into it every night. Eventually the bucket was replaced by a much larger barrel, and finally Sarah had to pick and choose lest the front yard cave in from the weight.

  When Sarah called, Kit had been sitting at the kitchen table with her fifth cup of coffee, thinking about what she liked about herself. She was thrilled to have a distraction.

  When the phone rang Kit was startled, and relieved. It rang so seldom these days. No brothers or sisters-in-law called. The nieces and nephews must also have been alerted. Job offers? Forget about it. Peter called, but it was mostly to say that he was going to be late. Sarah’s number popping up was like Christmas.

  Simply hearing Sarah’s voice made Kit’s heart somersault as if it was in the Olympics. Even though she was struggling to stay calm, she would have done anything to keep her daughter on the phone.

  “Well, honey, you have to do what you have to do and you are very far away. I understand,” Kit said with her eyes clamped shut. “Your father and I will cook a nice meal and have a toast for you and your exciting job.”

  Sarah asked why they weren’t going over to one of her uncles’ for the holiday.

  “Your dad’s work schedule is a mess, honey,” she lied, talking softly.

  Sarah was onto her. She wanted to know if Kit was okay. Had she been sick? Was something wrong?

  “Absolutely not,” Kit lied, laughing into the phone. “I’m great.”

  But then she realized that she really wasn’t lying. She was doing great. She was going to meet Ronnie for lunch again, and she was starting to write down jokes and thinking about things she hadn’t thought of in a very long time.

  “Sarah …”

  “What, Mom?”

  “It really is okay that you can’t make it home. I want you to experience everything. It’s very important to me that you have your own life. I’m here. Your dad and I are fine. Go. Explore. Have fun. But get your ass home whenever you can! We miss you. But we always miss you.”

  “Oh, Mom! Thanks! That makes it so much easier for me. I love you so much … and oh, I’ve gotta go.”

  The phone went dead and Kit felt as if she could fly. Her daughter was simply living her own life and wanted to know that her mother approved. She couldn’t wait to write this one down for Dr. B.

  Less than half a mile away, Jane is thinking about kicking Grace’s ass in four days. She is also positive that she’s in dire need of a spa treatment that she can’t afford, a ticket to Paris, some facial reconstruction, and an entire new life after that.

  Jane is relieved that Derrick is off with the boys tonight—at least that’s where he says he is—and she’s in the kitchen eyeing a bottle of Spanish wine that seems to be calling her name. She’s also working on all the assignments Dr. B. has given them and she’s terribly conflicted.

  She thinks about being angry at Grace and yet she can see Grace’s point, which sort of astounds her. Nice is not something Jane thinks about very often, so she focuses on Dr. Bayer’s Tuesday-night demands.

  “I may as well be in graduate school with all this homework,” she says, giving in to her wine urge and opening up a Cabernet that has an excellent 93-point rating from Wine Spectator.

  She pours a small sip into her glass, swirls it for a moment so the air will wake up the tannins, takes a sip, and feels as if a silk ribbon is running down the back of her throat.

  “This is fabulous,” she says, reaching for the decanter. Then she pours the wine into the decanter, licks the top of the bottle, and sits down at the kitchen table.

  Jane hasn’t yet decided what she’s going to do about Grace—or Derrick, for that matter. She knows if she says something to Dr. Bayer that Grace will probably end up being tossed from class, tossed into jail, and tossed out of what is left of her little department-store life. This is the hard part. Normally she wouldn’t hesitate to dismiss Grace, especially after the slap. Jane is absolutely giddy with the control she now feels over the situation, but she also feels bad for Grace.

  Grace is a single mom, she obviously works hard, she still has a daughter at home. And she’s kind of nice in a polyester sort of way. She was totally fun at bowling, and she’s a nurse. She must be seriously compassionate. Even if she blew a gasket.

  Normally Jane would do what she has done for so long that she really can’t think any other way. She would first weigh what’s in it for her. But she’s hesitating. What would this all mean for Grace? Is it worth it? If she tells about Grace, Leah and Kit will probably think she’s a pile of dog poop. That would make the rest of the classes hell. And she kind of likes them, too. What’s happened to her? She also loves the power of not telling. Jane can already imagine how Grace will keep her eyes down during class next Tuesday, be extra nice to her, lick her high heels if she asks her to so that she can stay in the class.

  But that makes her feel bad, too. These women are all in the same boat with her, and maybe that’s what Dr. B. has been getting at—that’s why Jane feels so … changed. She wishes Derrick were home. She’d tell him all of this. She would open her heart, and she’d even tell him how she melted when she held that little girl’s hand.

  She smiles, fills her crystal wineglass half full, smells the wine, takes a sip, and decides that she will keep her mouth shut. Why not? She needs to get through the class so that she can jump over the next hurdle, and it’s a hurdle that only she can see. One hurdle that even Dr. B. doesn’t know about.

  Something has been worrying her, though. It’s not that she might fail the class, because she’s confident that if she can control her mouth, be open to these women, and write everything down she can cruise forward to her next challenge.

  Jane is absolutely worried about what Grace said to her before she slapped her. How could she know about anything so personal? Why did she say what she did about doctors and babies and secrets and lies?

  The past few days, as she has been limping around the house, making phone calls to potential clients, visiting her own doctor, and talking with the police, had left her little time to ponder what happened moments before she walked out of the anger class last week.

  She’s not worried about writing in her journal. She’s simply happy to be alive, for one thing. Forget about the arrows and how impatient she has been and how nasty she was in class before Grace slapped her. If only she could have told them that she was worried about losing Derrick!

  She feels as if her insides are swirling. Even though she’s trying to be mean, she also feels … different. She’s not even sure how to describe it—it’s as if she’s gotten softer. She’s even worried about Leah and what will happen to her when the class ends.

  Maybe Dr. B. has cast a spell on all of them, what with these mysterious assignments, but she must think of some things she likes about herself. The wine is so good it’s almost distracting. Jane swirls the wine in her glass and looks into it, hoping a mess of answers will jump out and write themselves onto the paper.

  If she could be outwardly truthful for even one minute, Jane would keep her paper blank. Her professional and personal identity is so tied to her real-estate ventures that she has been flou
ndering for almost three years. Every single one of the days that have filled up those years have taken their toll on her psyche. When that horrid man dragged her down the alley, it pretty much felt like all the other days and nights she has endured during the past few years.

  And the years before them as well. Even when she was at the peak of her career and had a full-time assistant and was turning away clients. Even when she made the pages of the Chicago newspaper and magazine real-estate directories and garnered every top sales award. Even when she was wined and dined by other agents, by all those men whom she could have had with a simple nod of her head. Even when she persuaded Derrick to purchase this house and turn it into a showpiece. Even when she was the belle of the ball at last year’s high-school reunion and every woman and man who had treated her like a dog when she was in high school could barely recognize her.

  But there has always been so much missing from her life. Pieces of light and love and hope that other people seem to have or know how to get.

  And then there was the big secret her family had kept from her all those years. Why? Just why couldn’t they tell her she had been adopted? Why was it such a secret when she had friends who knew from the time they were little girls that they were adopted?

  After one huge sip of wine, Jane starts to write: Great organizer. Determined. Professionally adept. Enjoys a challenge. Knows when it’s time to step it up in anger class.

  Jane chuckles and sets down her pen for a moment. Dr. Bayer should love that last one!

  It’s quiet in the kitchen, and she wonders when Derrick will come home. She never told him but she always felt safer, especially the past few days, when he was in the house even though she’s worried about what he’s up to.

  The real truth is that Jane’s jumpy; even the sound of a car door closing makes her nervous. Yesterday when the doorbell rang she was absolutely terrified for a moment and couldn’t bring herself to open the door. In spite of how upbeat she feels, she has also been emotionally kicked in the teeth by the attack in the alley.

  She’s been telling herself she’ll get over it. It wasn’t as if she had been raped or brutally attacked. And yes, the women from class, Dr. Bayer included, and that insipid Grace, saved her. Those women saved her!

  That is when it hits her. Grace is some kind of nurse. She works at a hospital. Jane doesn’t know which hospital she works at or where she lives, but she did mention while they were waiting at the hospital last week that she’s a supervisor. She even went up to the desk and was allowed to look at Jane’s vital-sign readings when they were in the emergency room.

  “Shit!” Jane says, almost spilling her wine as she jumps up. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  Grace must somehow have read her charts—charts Derrick has never seen, charts and records that are supposed to be confidential, charts that could change the course of her life and ruin everything.

  Absolutely everything.

  36

  A Roll of the Dice

  Phyllis can’t believe that Olivia took her over to Buffy’s house and then left. Where is dinner? Why doesn’t the house smell like cooking meat? What kind of silly trick is this?

  Olivia and Buffy are barely to the restaurant door when Phyllis, who has been pacing and looking up at the front door, remembers the couch. She slides over on the slate floor and stands as still as if she has been frozen into place and then her limbs go soft just looking.

  She turns to look at the door one more time, and then something springs loose inside her and she takes a standing leap and lands right in the middle of the first cushion.

  It takes Phyllis all of five seconds to turn in a circle, bury her lovely head inside her paws, and forget all about cooking meat and the way Buffy’s hand feels like the kiss of wind on her back.

  Meanwhile, Olivia and Buffy have walked a mere block down the street to a small Italian restaurant. Olivia raced home early, scooped up Phyllis after a quick saunter around the trees, and drove over to have dinner with Buffy. That wasn’t odd, but the reason for dinner wasn’t the usual “let’s get together again” excuse.

  “Buffy, I need to talk,” Livie had said. “I just need to make certain I’m not crazy for what I’m doing with these Tuesday-night women.”

  Buffy, of course, laughed. “This late in the game, sweetie?”

  “You know you’re my psychologist,” Olivia admitted. “I need a session.”

  “Get over here then.”

  Buffy had decided they should eat out. She told Olivia that her social life was pathetic. Work. Phyllis. Talk on the phone to Florida. Work.

  It was impossible for Olivia to disagree, because it was the truth. She’d been pushing it for a while, and maybe a little pasta and red wine instead of whiskey was just what she needed.

  “Do you think Phyllis is on the couch yet?” Buffy asked while the server poured the first glass of Chianti.

  “I think I can hear her snoring from here,” Olivia said, laughing.

  “Okay. Talk to me. Let’s drink this wine, eat some of this bad-for-our-cholesterol bread, and talk before we order. Are they making any progress?”

  “You mean besides whatever happened with Jane and Grace and the guy in the alley and those beautiful things I read that they wrote and the fact that I can sense they have taken huge strides?”

  “Precisely.”

  Olivia has already drained her first glass of wine. It’s not whiskey but right now, even if it’s not yet five o’clock, the wine is just what she needs. Anger management for healthy souls can look just like this.

  “I think it’s hard for anyone to open up in groups, but these missions I’ve sent them on—I know it’s made a huge difference,” Livie shares. “I want them to succeed, and I know how hard this is because I’ve been there.”

  Buffy reaches across the table and puts her hand on Olivia’s.

  “I know, honey.”

  Olivia closes her eyes and shares how excited and worried she is for each one of the women. She calls them by their dot colors—green, red, blue, and black. She knows that anger management is in many ways no different from any other addiction, other forms of non-coping, stress that seem to take control, but in the end it’s all about living—simply living.

  Before she can go on, Buffy starts to laugh softly.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Remember—I don’t know how many years ago it was—but remember that night when you threw the frying pan across the kitchen in my old house when I told you I might take him back?”

  Olivia laughs, too. “Of course I remember. You told me you could have me arrested, and then I kicked the door, and broke a glass, and picked up the phone and carried it over to you.”

  “You were absolutely pissed at me, weren’t you?”

  “I was so scared you would really do it. I felt helpless.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I thought you’d retired, Dr. Buffy?”

  “How could I retire? You need constant counseling.”

  “See, that’s the part that worries me. When this class is over, they don’t all have a Dr. Buffy.”

  Buffy has had this conversation with Livie many times. She knows that this group of women is special for many reasons, and that Livie has been waiting to try some of her unique therapy ideas for a long time. She also knows that often it’s the tried and true that works.

  She knows, too, that more than one of Livie’s clients have been well served by writing down their feelings and thoughts. And she knows that Olivia is aware that for the women who have no one or nothing else, sometimes writing it down is all it takes.

  “Tell me about these dots,” Buffy says, pouring more wine. “Who do you think is going to make it?”

  Without hesitation, Olivia says she hopes all of them will make it. They have to make it. She wants them to make it.

  Buffy reaches across the table again to steady her friend. “Oh, Livie,” she murmurs.

  “You know this is the hard part for me,” Livie admits. “I want
them all to make it. It’s such a crapshoot. I could say oh yes, the black dot for sure will make it, but right this second anything could be happening to any of them. The dice is totally rolling right this second. But I do believe they’ve seen who they are, and that they can’t ever give up, and that love and kindness are always stronger than anything else.”

  “It’s the same with us, and with all those other dots, you know.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Olivia, you are so good at this. You give them and everyone your all. That’s all you can do.”

  “My work, you know—”

  “It shouldn’t be everything. Don’t you dare say it, or I’m going to get a frying pan from the kitchen and throw it at you.”

  Olivia laughs, and when she tips back her head she lets it all go—it’s her simple way of releasing everything—for the moment anyway—that she is holding inside. She laughs for a long time, and then orders whole-wheat pasta with pesto, and Buffy says she wishes it were Friday so they could order more wine.

  “Honey,” Olivia admonishes her friend, “if I do retire, and I’m not saying it’s going to happen, we’d be drunks in a few weeks.”

  “Oh, what fun!” Buffy says, giggling.

  They aren’t finished talking about the dots. They both get a doggie bag, and when they walk back to Buffy’s house for coffee and dessert Phyllis is caught off guard when she smells the meatball that Buffy saved for her before it even enters the house.

  The door opens, Phyllis jerks awake, smells the food and flips right over and onto the floor.

  She’s absolutely fine, but both Buffy and Olivia are laughing so hard when they see Phyllis act like a gymnast that they both run for the bathroom as if their legs are on fire.

  37

  Light in the Tunnel

  Kit has been walking through the ground floor of her house for three hours. She’s trying to look at it from a new perspective, as if she is walking in for the first time, and every time she does that she’s appalled.